We've Gathered Here Today In Celebration Of Men With Pretty Brown Eyes

“Cold Wind”

Commander Cody x Jedi!Reader

Post-Order 66, early Imperial Era

⸻

They called her a terrorist now.

Once upon a time, they called her General. Jedi. Friend.

But those days were ash.

The Jedi Order was gone—betrayed by its own soldiers, hunted by the Empire it helped birth, and erased from history like an inconvenient stain. Those who survived scattered like broken glass across the galaxy, hiding in shadows, smothering their light, hoping to live long enough to spark something again.

But not you.

You didn’t run. You didn’t bow. You didn’t hide.

You fought.

A lonely hero. Trying to fight too many battles.

Openly. Proudly. Recklessly, some would say. But you didn’t care. If they wanted to call you a terrorist, then let them. You were dangerous. Not because of your power, but because of your refusal to give up.

You lit your saber like a beacon in the dark. You attacked Imperial convoys. Freed enslaved workers. Raided supply depots. Stole data. Inspired whispers across the Outer Rim.

They posted your face on wanted screens with the words:

HIGHLY DANGEROUS. JEDI TERRORIST. KILL ON SIGHT.

And you laughed. Because for the first time in a long time, you felt alive.

But even fire can burn cold. Especially when you burn alone.

“Life likes to blow the cold wind…

Sometimes it freezes my shadow.”

⸻

The battle on Gorse was a blur of smoke, fire, and screams.

Another raid. Another desperate gamble. But this one wasn’t like the others.

Because he was there.

Commander Cody.

You saw him the moment he stepped out of the dropship. Clad in black-trimmed Imperial armor, a commander’s pauldron on his shoulder, his movements precise, efficient, familiar.

It hit you like a punch to the gut.

You froze, mid-fight, your saber humming in your grip.

He saw you too. His helmet tilted. A heartbeat of stillness passed between you across the chaos.

And just like that, time rewound.

Missions. Long nights. Campsite coffee and war-room arguments. His voice in your comm: “Copy that, General.”

His voice in your dreams: “Stay alive. I’ll watch your back.”

But that was before. Before the betrayal. Before the chips. Before everything.

Now?

He raised his blaster rifle.

You didn’t move.

He didn’t shoot.

The stormtroopers around him hesitated, uncertain.

“Stand down,” Cody barked, his voice cold, sharp, and absolute. The troopers obeyed instantly.

You took one slow step forward.

“Cody,” you said, voice low.

His grip tightened, knuckles white beneath plastoid.

“You should’ve disappeared with the rest,” he said.

“I don’t know how to be quiet,” you answered, lifting your chin. “In the midst of all this darkness… I must sacrifice my ego for the greater good. There isn’t room for selfish..”

He said nothing.

For one awful second, you thought he might arrest you.

Instead, he turned and ordered a retreat.

He didn’t even look back.

⸻

Weeks passed.

You tried to forget. You kept fighting. You told yourself that the man you remembered was gone. Replaced by protocol. Stripped of soul.

But still… something gnawed at you.

The way he hadn’t shot. The way he’d told his men to stand down. The way his voice trembled just slightly when he said your name.

You started scanning intercepted comms during downtime.

Just in case.

And then, one night, across a crackling, half-jammed signal from a rebel slicer…

“—Commander Cody. AWOL.

Deserted post.

Last seen heading into the Outer Rim.

Do not engage without support.

Consider highly dangerous.”

You stopped breathing.

He left.

He left.

Everything blurred after that—coordinates, favors, stolen codes, sleepless nights. You chased shadows across half the galaxy. You didn’t know what you’d say if you found him.

But you knew you had to.

⸻

You found him on a dead moon. The kind no one bothered with anymore—cold, quiet, abandoned.

The outpost was half-crumbled. The fire inside even more so.

He was sitting beside it, helmet off, hunched forward, hands resting on his knees. His face looked older. Harder. Tired in a way that sleep couldn’t fix.

You stepped into the firelight without a word.

His head lifted. He didn’t reach for a weapon.

“Took you long enough,” Cody said quietly.

You swallowed. “You left.”

“You were right,” he replied. “You didn’t hide. I did. I stayed in the system because I thought it was safer. Cleaner. But it’s just slower death.”

Silence stretched between you. Wind howled outside, cold enough to steal breath.

“I thought I lost you,” you whispered.

Cody’s voice cracked just slightly. “I thought I destroyed you.”

You moved toward him, every step heavy.

“Why didn’t you shoot me?” you asked.

He looked at you—really looked. Like he was memorizing you again.

“Because even after everything… I couldn’t. I wouldn’t.”

You sat across from him, the flickering light catching on your saber hilt.

“You’ve got nowhere to go,” you said softly. “Neither do I.”

He let out a slow breath. “Then maybe we stay nowhere. Together.”

You stared at the flames, and for the first time in years, they felt warm.

“I’m still a wanted terrorist,” you reminded him.

Cody’s mouth quirked, just slightly. “Guess that makes me a traitor.”

You glanced at him. “I think I missed you.”

He met your eyes. “I know I missed you.”

And for a moment, the galaxy fell away. No war. No orders. Just two people sitting in the ruins of everything, quietly choosing each other anyway.

“Crossfire” pt.2

Commander Cody x Reader x Captain Rex

The transmission came through encrypted—priority red. Only one man used that level for you.

Palpatine.

You were already on a job halfway across the mid rim, credits in hand, target bleeding out behind you. But the moment his message came through, you abandoned everything. You didn’t hesitate.

Meet me at the Jedi Temple. Do not be late. – S.P.

⸻

You’d walked into war zones with less tension in your shoulders.

The Temple was beautiful in the way ancient weapons are—elegant, polished, deadly. You moved past towering statues and sacred halls, every Jedi you passed giving you the same look: mistrust. Unease.

Good. Let them squirm.

As the war room doors slid open with a soft hiss, all eyes turned to you.

You stepped in slow, measured, the weight of a dozen stares pressing down your spine like a blade. The room was war incarnate—strategy, power, command. And it watched you with silent judgment.

Standing at the forefront:

General Obi-Wan Kenobi, composed as ever, hands folded, a silent storm behind his eyes.

Beside him, Commander Cody, helmet under arm, chin set, already assessing you like a battlefield.

General Anakin Skywalker, lounging in that casual defiance he wore like armor, flanked by Captain Rex, who stood just a little too stiffly for comfort.

Then there was Master Mace Windu, an immovable pillar at the center of it all. His commander, Ponds, stood at his side—stoic, calm, the kind of soldier who watched everything and said little.

Further down, Master Kit Fisto offered a diplomatic nod, the faintest flicker of curiosity in his eyes. His clone, Commander Monk, mirrored him: collected, but his fingers tapped an idle rhythm on his vambrace like he already expected things to go sideways.

And finally, Aayla Secura, calm and unreadable, with Commander Bly behind her—silent, stern, and entirely unimpressed.

At the center of the room, waiting with a smug patience, stood Chancellor Palpatine.

He turned toward you with a grandfather’s smile—one that always felt like it was hiding teeth. “My friends,” he said, “allow me to introduce someone who has served the Republic with discretion and remarkable skill.”

You stood taller, letting your eyes sweep across the room.

“This bounty hunter has been a valuable ally to my office for some time. Her knowledge of Separatist operations is unmatched, and her methods…” His smile deepened. “…are effective.”

You caught the way Cody’s jaw tightened. Rex’s brow furrowed. Bly looked like he’d rather shoot you than shake your hand. Even Windu’s expression soured like something had curdled in the Force.

“She will accompany you on the invasion of Teth, and she has been assigned a special task—one that is not up for discussion.”

He let the weight of that hang for a moment, then stepped aside, gesturing toward the table.

“Now, shall we begin?”

⸻

Rex found you first.

He’d been trailing behind Skywalker, but as soon as the war meeting ended, he broke off and caught up to you in a quiet corridor overlooking the city below.

“You’ve got some nerve,” he said without greeting.

You turned slowly, raising a brow. “Missed you too, Captain.”

He stepped closer, voice low. “What the hell is going on? Since when are you chummy with the Chancellor?”

You tilted your head. “Does it matter?”

“It does to me.”

You stared at him for a moment. That familiar crease in his brow. The way he clenched his jaw when he was confused or angry—usually both. He still looked good in his armor. Still looked at you like he wanted to pull you close and shake you at the same time.

“I do what I’m paid for,” you said quietly. “Same as you.”

“This is different. He trusts you. They’re being told to trust you. And you’ve burned every side you’ve ever stood on.”

You didn’t answer.

And that’s when Skywalker appeared behind him.

“If the Chancellor trusts her,” Anakin said, arms crossed, “then so do I.”

Rex’s mouth parted, confused.

You looked between them. Skywalker’s gaze wasn’t warm—it wasn’t trusting, not really. It was calculated. He was watching how Rex would respond. How you would react. Testing.

“Well,” you said after a beat, “that’s one of us.”

Skywalker smirked, then walked off without another word.

You and Rex stood in silence.

“I’m not the enemy, Rex,” you said softly.

He looked at you for a long time.

“I just don’t know who you are anymore.”

And then he walked away.

⸻

Teth was chaos.

The invasion was in full swing—blaster fire lighting up the canyons, LAATs screaming across the sky, droids collapsing by the dozen under the Jedi-led assault. You were technically assigned to General Secura’s squad—but “assigned” was a loose term. In truth, you were never meant to stay.

Not according to the Chancellor.

Your objective wasn’t battle.

It was extraction.

One target. A child. The son of a Separatist senator. Rumors whispered of his gifts—how things floated when he was upset, how animals followed him like shadows, how he dreamed of things that hadn’t happened yet.

Force-sensitive.

Palpatine wanted him. And the war on Teth was just the perfect smoke screen to get in and get out unseen.

You were already dressed for infiltration—slim-cut armor under your usual gear, hair pulled back, weapons light but sharp. You slipped into one of the forward camps to “check in” before vanishing into the deeper jungle. Just long enough to draw attention—and spark some tension.

⸻

You strolled into the republic outpost with a slow sway in your hips, sweat glistening at your collarbone, a bit of battlefield grit clinging to your boots. The clones were mid-prep, chatter low and urgent.

Commander Monk caught your eye first—leaning against a crate, half-armored, running diagnostics on a vibroblade. He looked up when you approached, a slow smirk forming as he straightened.

“Well,” he said, voice smooth and lazy. “They didn’t say you’d be this pretty.”

You tilted your head, smirking. “They say a lot of things. Some of them are even true.”

He stepped closer, eyes flicking from your face to your hips. “Tell me—are you here to help with the front lines, or just give the troops something nice to look at before they die?”

You leaned in, close enough for your breath to ghost across his jaw. “What if I said both?”

Behind you, Commander Cody passed by with a datapad, slowing just slightly as he caught your voice. His expression was unreadable, but the sideways glance he shot Monk was cold.

A few steps behind him, Rex came into view, muttering something to a trooper. When his eyes landed on you—and how close you were to Monk—his jaw tensed so tight you could hear his teeth grind.

You grinned to yourself.

“Anyway,” you said, pulling back from Monk, “I’m off. Try not to miss me too much.”

He raised a brow. “Can’t make any promises.”

You winked—and slipped out of camp like a ghost.

The child’s location was buried deep within a fortified compound—a Separatist safehouse tucked into the cliffs. He was guarded, but not like a military asset. More like a precious heir.

You got in easy.

You always did.

The boy couldn’t have been more than eight. Pale-skinned, solemn-eyed, with dark curls and quiet power that made the hairs on your arms rise. When you reached for him, he didn’t flinch. Just asked:

“Are you going to kill me?”

“No,” you said gently. “I’m getting you out of here.”

He didn’t resist.

He followed.

You stole a sleek Separatist craft on your way out—just one of a dozen abandoned during the Republic’s assault. Before long, you were rising through Teth’s atmosphere, the battle shrinking beneath you like a dying ember.

You didn’t check in with the Jedi.

Didn’t respond to transmissions.

Just disappeared.

⸻

The rendezvous was barren, wind-swept rock. Palpatine’s shuttle waited like a dark bird, wings hunched, engines humming.

You stepped off your stolen ship, the boy at your side, hand in yours.

Palpatine stood waiting. Hooded. Smiling faintly.

“It is done,” you said.

He gestured. Two guards took the child—gently, but without warmth. The boy looked back at you once, uncertain. You gave him the softest nod you could manage.

When the guards disappeared with him into the shadows, you turned to the Chancellor.

“What do you want with him?”

Silence.

You stepped forward. “You said I’d be paid. You didn’t say I’d be complicit in whatever that was.”

Palpatine’s smile thinned. “You’ve done a great service to the Republic. I advise you not to question what you don’t understand.”

You held his gaze.

And then turned and walked away.

⸻

The battle was won.

The Separatist forces had scattered like ashes in a storm. Teth’s jungle was a smoking mess of twisted metal, scorched bark, and the distant whine of injured ships groaning through the atmosphere.

But despite the victory, the war room was tense. Too tense.

Because one particular wildcard had vanished.

“She was last seen in Sector Eight,” Rex said, tapping a red blinking point on the holomap. “Near the outer ridge, just after we pushed through the southern lines.”

“She gave some excuse about ‘scouting ahead,’” Cody added, arms crossed tight over his chest. “But no one’s heard from her since. No comms. No visual confirmation.”

Skywalker paced. “You think she ran?”

“I don’t know what to think,” Rex said, jaw clenched. “She was being vague the whole campaign. Smiling like she had a secret.”

Obi-Wan raised a brow, ever calm. “She always has a secret.”

Across the table, Master Windu’s expression was carved from stone. “And the Chancellor insisted she be included in this operation?”

“Yes,” Kenobi confirmed, voice edged. “Personally. Claimed she could be trusted. That her presence would be an asset.”

“She hasn’t just disappeared,” said Aayla, frowning. “She vanished—mid-campaign. No distress signal, no call for evac, no trace.”

Mace’s voice was low and hard. “I don’t like it.”

From the shadows near the edge of the tent, Commander Monk muttered, “I liked it just fine until she ghosted.”

Rex gave him a sharp look. “You’re saying she planned it?”

“I’m saying someone who moves like that doesn’t just wander off.”

Skywalker crossed his arms, uneasy. “She’s not exactly known for sticking to orders.”

Cody shook his head, expression grim. “She’s not one of us. She was never one of us. She does what she’s paid to do.”

“And who’s paying her now?” Mace asked.

Silence.

They all glanced at each other.

And that silence was louder than the gunfire outside.

Later that night Rex stood at the edge of the jungle, helmet off, listening to the forest hiss and settle. His grip tightened on the comm link in his hand—static was all it offered.

“She didn’t even say goodbye,” he muttered.

Behind him, Cody walked up, quiet as always.

“She didn’t have to.”

Rex sighed. “She was talking to Monk before she left. Laughing. Flirting.”

“You jealous?”

Rex didn’t answer.

Cody gave a humorless chuckle. “We both know she was never going to stay.”

Rex’s jaw flexed. “I still want to know what she took with her.”

“Me too,” Cody murmured. “Me too.”

They stood there in silence, staring out at the smoke, wondering where the hell you’d gone—and what kind of game you were playing now.

Because disappearing without a trace was one thing.

Disappearing under the nose of two Jedi Generals, four clone commanders, and an entire battalion?

That meant you weren’t just clever.

You were dangerous.

⸻

The light was soft. Too soft.

The war had made the Jedi wary of stillness, and yet the Council chambers were quiet, every breath measured as Windu finished reviewing the final report.

“She vanished mid-operation,” he said, tapping the datapad. “Left her assigned sector without clearance. Never checked in. The child of a high-ranking Separatist senator was confirmed missing within the same timeframe.”

Obi-Wan nodded, arms folded in his robes. “I’ve already confirmed with Republic Intelligence. The senator’s entire estate was found abandoned two days after our withdrawal from Teth.”

“She was never meant to be embedded in that sector,” Aayla added, sharp. “She insisted on being close to the front. Claimed she worked best that way.”

Kit Fisto let out a low hum. “And yet she slipped past Jedi, clones, and Separatist scanners. Not many could pull that off.”

“She’s not just some bounty hunter,” Windu said. “And it’s time we stop pretending otherwise.”

Anakin looked up from where he sat near the window, frowning. “You think she’s a spy?”

“I think she’s dangerous,” Windu said. “Too close to the Chancellor. Too good at disappearing.”

Master Yoda’s eyes opened slowly. “Warn the Chancellor, we must. Dangerous this could become.”

⸻

The office was dimly lit when the Jedi arrived, cloaks still dusted with the desert wind from Teth.

Palpatine greeted them with his usual gentle smile, hands folded, tone gracious. “Masters. What can I do for you?”

Windu stepped forward. “This is about your… associate. The bounty hunter.”

Palpatine raised a brow. “Ah. Her. Yes. A most resourceful ally.”

“She disappeared during a mission we allowed her to join,” Obi-Wan said carefully. “And the child of a Separatist senator vanished at the same time.”

“And she has yet to report to anyone,” Windu added. “Not to the Jedi. Not to the Republic.”

“She reported to me,” Palpatine replied smoothly. “She was carrying out a parallel task under my authority. And she completed it. Efficiently.”

Windu’s voice darkened. “Why were we not informed?”

The Chancellor’s expression didn’t change. “Because the mission was delicate. Sensitive. And because I am well within my rights to employ allies of the Republic when circumstances require.”

“She cannot be trusted,” Windu pressed. “And if she continues to operate under Republic protection—”

“She served the Republic,” Palpatine interrupted, voice suddenly steely beneath the velvet. “She followed orders. She succeeded where others failed. And I personally look forward to working with her again.”

A beat of silence.

“I’d advise you to show her the respect she’s earned.”

The Jedi exchanged tight looks. None spoke.

But in that silence, something changed.

⸻

The music thrummed low, the scent of Corellian whiskey and fried rations thick in the air. Clones lounged around battered metal tables, laughter and banter bouncing off the walls as holo-screens flickered with highlights from the latest front.

Rex sat with a few of his men near the back—Fives, Jesse, and Kix, boots up, drinks half-empty, a rare moment of peace carved from chaos.

Then the bar doors slid open, and everything changed.

You stepped inside like you owned the place—black gloves, low-slung blaster, a smirk like a secret, and just enough sway in your step to turn every head. And you wanted it that way.

“Well, well…” you purred, eyes locking with Rex. “Still alive, Captain?”

Rex blinked, caught between surprise and irritation. “You’ve got some nerve showing up here.”

“I missed you,” you said sweetly, sliding into the booth uninvited. “Didn’t you miss me?”

Jesse let out a low whistle.

“You ghost us mid-campaign, and now you wanna play friendly?” Rex muttered, jaw tight.

You tilted your head, reaching for one of the drinks at the table without asking. “You’re cute when you’re grumpy, Rex.”

“She’s dangerous,” Kix murmured under his breath, nudging Fives.

“She’s hot,” Fives corrected.

You winked at him.

Rex glared.

“You’re drawing attention,” he said through clenched teeth.

“I am the attention, sweetheart,” you replied, leaning in just a little too close. “Don’t act like you don’t love it.”

Then you stood just as suddenly, smoothing your jacket. “Anyway. Just wanted to say hi. You boys behave now.”

You turned on your heel and made for the door, leaving Rex simmering in the wake of too much perfume and not enough answers.

You stepped out into the cool evening air, only to come face to face with a familiar Jedi.

Kit Fisto.

He stood still, robes draped around him like calm waters, but his expression was taut. Watchful.

“Master Fisto,” you said lightly. “Didn’t peg you for the bar scene.”

“I wasn’t in the bar,” he replied evenly. “I was watching it.”

You raised a brow. “Well, that’s not creepy at all.”

He ignored the jab. “You’ve been avoiding the Temple. Avoiding questions.”

“Busy girl,” you said. “Chancellor keeps me on a tight leash.”

Kit stepped closer. “You disappeared during an active campaign. Then reappeared on Coruscant with no debrief. And now you’re… fraternizing.”

You smirked. “With who, exactly?”

“The clones,” he said simply. “Rex. His men. I saw how you looked at them.”

“Maybe I like men in armor,” you replied, flippant.

“Or maybe,” Kit said, voice low and steady, “you’re gathering leverage. Getting too close. Making soldiers trust you.”

Your smile faded just a little.

He didn’t flinch.

“You’re not a Jedi,” he said. “You’re not bound by our code. But they are still our men. And I don’t know what game you’re playing with them, but I see through it.”

You stared at him for a beat, silence thick with tension.

Then you stepped close, eyes narrowed with challenge. “You don’t like me, that’s fine. But don’t mistake attraction for manipulation, Master Jedi. You should know better.”

Kit’s expression didn’t change. “Then prove me wrong.”

You lingered, lips twitching.

But then you were gone, slipping back into the shadows with a flutter of your coat—leaving only questions behind.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

Hi! I was wondering if you could do a TBB x Fem!Reader +any other clones of your choice, where they keep using pet names in mandoa like cyar'ika, mesh'la, and maybe even riduur?(because they might’ve gotten accidentally married? Love those tropes)

but the reader has no idea what they mean and that they’re pet names or that the batch likes her. Eventually she finds out of course and a bunch of stuttering cute confessions?

Your writing is so amazing and i literally can’t get enough of it! Xx

“Say It Again?”

TBB x Fem!Reader

You had gotten used to the way clones talked — the gruffness, the slang, the camaraderie. But ever since you’d been working more closely with Clone Force 99, you’d noticed something… different.

They used weird words around you. Words you didn’t hear other troopers saying.

Hunter always greeted you with a gentle “Cyar’ika,” accompanied by that intense little half-smile of his.

Wrecker would beam and shout, “Mesh’la! You came!” every time you entered a room — like you were some goddess descending from the stars.

Crosshair, as always, was smug and cool, throwing in a soft “Riduur…” under his breath when he thought you weren’t listening, though you never figured out what it meant. He often smirked when you looked confused, and somehow that made it worse.

Even Tech, who rarely used nicknames at all, had let slip a casual “You’re quite remarkable, mesh’la,” when you helped him debug his datapad. He didn’t look up, but you felt the heat in his voice.

And Echo? Sweet, dependable Echo — he was the least subtle of them all.

“You alright, cyar’ika?”

“You look tired, cyar’ika.”

“Get some rest, cyar’ika.”

You were starting to think “Cyar’ika” meant your actual name.

But something was off. The others never used those words with each other. Only with you.

So, naturally, you asked Rex.

And Rex choked on his caf.

“You—what did Crosshair call you?” he coughed, wiping his chin.

You repeated it: “Rid…uur? I think? I dunno. He said it real low.”

Rex gave you the slowest blink you’d ever seen and then rubbed the bridge of his nose.

“Riduur means… spouse. As in… wife. It’s what you call your partner.”

You froze. “What?!”

“And cyar’ika?” he continued, amused. “Sweetheart. Mesh’la is ‘beautiful.’ They’re… Mando’a pet names. Very affectionate.”

The blushing.

The flashbacks.

All those words… those looks… Tech calling you remarkable like it was a scientific fact, Crosshair smirking like he had secrets, Echo’s voice dropping a full octave every time he said cyar’ika…

You marched straight into the Havoc Marauder like a woman on a mission — and promptly forgot how to speak when all five of them looked up at you.

“…You okay, mesh’la?” Hunter asked gently.

You blinked. Your voice cracked. “…You’ve been calling me sweetheart?”

The room went dead silent.

Echo dropped his ration bar.

Wrecker panicked. “Wait—you didn’t know?”

Crosshair chuckled and leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “Told you she didn’t know.”

Tech frowned at him. “Statistically, the odds of her knowing were—”

“You called me your wife,” you said, pointing at Crosshair like he’d committed a war crime.

He shrugged. “Didn’t hear you complain.”

You stammered something completely unintelligible, covering your face with both hands, and Wrecker let out the loudest, happiest laugh you’d ever heard. “So… does that mean you like us back?”

You peeked through your fingers. “…Us?”

Hunter stepped forward slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. “We all… kinda do. Like you. A lot.”

You were red. Like, fruit-on-Ryloth red. “You’re telling me five elite clones have been flirting with me in another language this whole time?!”

“…Yes,” they all mumbled at once.

Crosshair grinned like he’d won a bet. “So… Riduur?”

“Riduur?” Crosshair repeated, lifting a brow like it was nothing. Like he hadn’t just dropped a romantic thermal detonator right in front of everyone.

You stared at him. At all of them.

Hunter’s quiet guilt. Echo’s embarrassed fidgeting. Wrecker’s hopeful puppy-dog smile. Tech’s analytical interest. And Crosshair’s smug little smirk that you really wanted to slap off his face… or maybe kiss.

You swallowed. “I—I need a second.”

And then promptly turned on your heel and walked right back out of the Marauder.

⸻

You spent the rest of the day spiraling.

Sweetheart. Beautiful. Wife.

They’d been calling you those for weeks. Months, maybe. You were out here thinking it was some fun cultural expression or inside joke you weren’t in on—and it turns out you were the joke. The target. Of five clone commandos’… affection?

It didn’t feel like a joke, though. It felt sincere. Soft. Safe.

And scary.

Because you liked them. All of them. Differently, but genuinely. The thought of them caring about you—of whispering pet names they grew up hearing in the most intimate, personal ways—made your chest ache in a way you didn’t know how to handle.

⸻

The next day, you avoided them.

The next day, they let you.

The third day, Hunter found you in the mess hall, sat beside you without a word, and handed you a steaming mug of caf.

You looked at him.

He didn’t speak right away. Then: “We’re sorry. If we made you uncomfortable.”

“I’m not uncomfortable,” you blurted out. “I just… didn’t know how to react. I’m still trying to figure it out.”

Hunter nodded, eyes kind. “We can stop. The nicknames, I mean.”

You hesitated. “No. I don’t want you to stop.”

He smiled, just a little. “You sure?”

You nodded. “I think I like them. I just… I want to know what they mean now.”

⸻

So, one by one, the boys showed you.

Wrecker said “mesh’la” every time you helped him carry heavy crates, with a goofy grin that made your stomach flip.

Echo said “cyar’ika” after every quiet conversation, letting the word linger like a promise he wasn’t ready to say aloud yet.

Tech, precise as always, began to offer direct translations.

“You look stunning today, mesh’la—objectively, of course.”

Crosshair didn’t stop with “riduur.” He started calling you “cyar’ika” too—softly, in rare unguarded moments—and he never looked away when he said it. Like he meant it. Like he knew what it was doing to you.

And Hunter? Hunter started saying “ner cyar’ika.” My sweetheart.

⸻

It wasn’t instant.

But slowly, their voices stopped making you flustered—and started making you feel home.

You started saying their names softer. Started touching their arms when you passed. Started blushing less… and smiling more.

And one day, while standing beside Wrecker during maintenance, you reached up on your toes, kissed his cheek, and whispered, “Thanks, cyare.”

He blinked. His whole face lit up like a nova. “You said it back!”

Later, you caught Echo outside the ship. Nervous, swaying slightly on his heels. You pressed your hand into his and whispered, “You can keep calling me cyar’ika, you know.”

He looked down at you with wide eyes. “You really don’t mind?”

You shook your head. “I like it.”

And Tech, when you repeated “mesh’la” with a teasing little lilt, glanced at you and—just this once—forgot what he was doing.

Even Crosshair dropped his toothpick when you looked him dead in the eye and whispered: “You keep calling me your riduur. What does that make you, then?”

He blinked. Once. Then smiled. Really smiled. “Yours.”

⸻

By the time you curled up beside Hunter one quiet night, your head on his shoulder and his hand tracing slow circles on your back, he murmured “ner cyar’ika” and you didn’t freeze or stammer.

You just smiled.

Because now you knew.

And you finally, finally understood that you’d never been the joke.

You’d always been the reason they smiled.

Do you ever just go about your day, sip your little drink, open your little email, and then remember that Hardcase—our chaos ADHD king, our walking serotonin shot, our human thermal detonator—sacrificed himself with a grin and a quip so his brothers could escape? That he went out in a blaze of glory, piloting a stolen ship with literally no plan except “blow stuff up real good,” and the last thing he said was "live to fight another day boys, live to fight another day"???

Hardcase, who never stopped calling his brothers “sir” even when they told him to quit it. Hardcase, who probably never got promoted because he was “reckless.” Hardcase, who loved flying and loud noises and sunshine and probably didn’t understand why no one ever let him just have fun—and then he died for everyone else. Just. Like. That.

Do you ever remember Echo? Sweet, by-the-books, “regulations exist for a reason” Echo who lost everything and kept surviving anyway? Echo who got blown up during a rescue mission, turned into a cybernetic lab rat, hooked up to machines like a tool, stripped of his name, his agency, his brotherhood—and he still came back.

He came back and found out Fives was gone. He came back and the war was ending only to find out there was no end to begin with. He came back and nothing was the same, and he still kept going. That man has literally had half his body replaced with cyber-grade hardware and he's still more human than some Jedi.

Do you ever think about Fives? Fives who figured it out. Fives who knew about the chips. Fives who died saying the truth. He didn’t go down in glory. He wasn’t martyred. He bled out in a hangar, shaking and crying and trying to tell the people he trusted that everything was a lie. And NOBODY BELIEVED HIM. They said he lost his mind. THEY. SAID. HE LOST. HIS MIND.

Fives who just wanted to be loyal. Who just wanted to protect his brothers. Who died trying to save them all and didn’t live to see a single one freed.

Do you remember Jesse? That sweet, noble ARC trooper who wore the Republic symbol on his face like a badge of honor and who looked absolutely shattered when he turned on Ahsoka. He didn’t want to. You could see it. You could feel the war inside him. But the chip won. Because "good soldiers follow orders".

Do you remember Tup? That sweet, soft-spoken clone who glitched first. Who killed two jedi, because “Good soldiers follow orders,” like he was possessed. Because he was. Because the war broke him open before anyone was ready.

Do you ever remember Waxer and Boil? Waxer who kept an eye on a scared little Twi'lek girl Numa through a war zone. Waxer who died seeing his brothers were turning against each other because of Krell and his lies, and who apologized with his dying breath?

Do you remember that clones had names? Do you remember that they named themselves? That they forged their identities with paint and banter and nicknames and loyalty and found joy in being individuals even when everything about their existence was designed to erase that?

Do you remember that they aged twice as fast and weren’t supposed to live long enough to get tired?

That the GAR never intended to care for them after the war? That there was no post-war plan? That the Empire swept them aside for cheaper labor?

That Rex had to watch his brothers turn, die, disappear, and he STILL fought in the rebellion with a heart twice the size of Coruscant???

Do you ever think about how the clones were raised in pods, trained like blaster fodder, taught to say “Yes sir” and never think twice, and still found ways to be brave and kind and funny and GOOD???

DO YOU???

Anyway. I’m normal. Totally fine. Just sitting here naming my coffee cups after 501st troopers and crying into my caf. Would die for every single one of them. Even Dogma. ESPECIALLY Dogma. And Rex. And Fives. And Hardcase. And Echo. And Waxer. And-

Hiya! I absolutely love your writing and always look forward to your posts

I saw that request about the commanders catching you with their helmets on and I was wondering if you could do that but with the bad batch?

Again, love your writing. I hope you have a great day/night!

Hey! Thank you so much—that means a lot to me! 💖

I actually was planning to include the Bad Batch too but wanted to start with just the commanders first.

⸻

HUNTER

You weren’t expecting to get caught.

You were standing in the cockpit, wearing Hunter’s helmet—not for mischief, really, but because you were genuinely curious how he functioned with his enhanced senses dulled. You wanted to know what it was like to see through his eyes. To feel what he felt.

The helmet was heavy. Too heavy.

He walked in mid-thought, and you froze.

Hunter didn’t speak. He just stood there, half in shadow, his brow furrowing slowly like he was processing an entirely new battlefield situation.

You didn’t say anything either. You just… stood there. Helmet on. Stiff-backed. Guilty.

Finally, he stepped forward.

“…That’s mine.”

You took it off and held it out sheepishly. “I wanted to see what you see. It’s filtered. Muffled. How do you live like this?”

Hunter took the helmet from your hands and gave you a long, unreadable look.

“I don’t. I adapt.”

Then he brushed past you—close, deliberate—and you swore his fingers grazed yours just a little longer than necessary.

⸻

WRECKER

“Whoa!”

You heard the booming voice before you could even turn.

You were in the loading bay, helmet pulled low over your face as you tried to figure out how the heck Wrecker even saw through it with one eye. It was like wearing a bucket with a tunnel vision problem.

He charged over with the biggest grin you’d ever seen.

“Look at you! You’re me!”

You pulled the helmet off, grinning. “I don’t know how you walk around with this thing. It’s like being inside a durasteel trash can.”

“I know, right? But it looks great on you!”

He took the helmet back, turning it in his hands, then gave you a wide-eyed look.

“You wanna try my pauldron next?! Or lift something heavy?!”

You laughed. “Maybe next time, big guy.”

Wrecker beamed. “You’re so getting the full Wrecker experience.”

You weren’t sure what that meant, but you were both strangely okay with it.

⸻

TECH

You had only meant to try it on for a second.

But you made the mistake of reading one of his datapads while wearing it. And once the internal HUD booted up? Well, curiosity took over.

Tech returned from the cockpit to find you hunched over in the corner, still wearing his helmet and scanning system diagnostics.

His voice was clipped. “You’re tampering with active interface systems.”

“I’m learning,” you shot back, not looking up.

He blinked, then stepped closer, fingers twitching in that nervous way he did when he wasn’t sure if he should be impressed or horrified.

“You activated my visual overlay filters.”

“I figured out the encryption pattern.”

Now that caught his attention.

He slowly knelt beside you. “How long have you had it on?”

“…Twenty-three minutes?”

He swallowed. “And you’re not… disoriented?”

“Nope. Just slightly overstimulated.”

There was a pause.

Then, quietly: “You may keep it on. Temporarily.”

You turned. “You trust me with your helmet?”

He cleared his throat. “Don’t make it a habit.”

But he was already adjusting the fit at the sides of your head.

⸻

ECHO

Echo did not find it cute.

He found it concerning.

The helmet wasn’t just gear. It was part of his reconstructed identity—a thing he wore not because he wanted to, but because he had to.

So when he saw you on the edge of his bunk, wearing it—your legs swinging slightly, gaze distant—his chest tightened.

“What are you doing?” he asked, voice rougher than he meant it to be.

You looked up, startled. “I didn’t mean to be disrespectful. I was just… wondering what it’s like. Living with this.”

He stepped forward slowly, kneeling to your eye level. “It’s not something I’d want you to understand.”

You pulled the helmet off, placed it in his hands. “I didn’t think about that.”

He let out a quiet breath, then shook his head. “No. You did. That’s why you’re here thinking about it.”

You gave a soft smile. “I wanted to know you better.”

He swallowed hard. “You already do.”

⸻

CROSSHAIR

You knew exactly what you were doing.

And that was the problem.

You sat in the sniper’s perch in the Marauder, elbow on one knee, head tilted just slightly as you stared down at the deck below—wearing his helmet.

You heard the footstep. The sigh.

“Really?” His voice was lazy, drawled out like he wasn’t fazed, but there was a subtle tension underneath.

You didn’t look at him. “I wanted to see what it was like. Looking down on the rest of the world.”

He chuckled once, dry and sharp. “And? Is it satisfying?”

“No. It’s lonely.”

Crosshair was quiet for a long moment. Then he climbed the ladder halfway, leaned against the edge of the platform.

“Don’t get comfortable in it.”

You turned your head, voice just a little softer. “Why not?”

“Because if you wear it any longer, I might start to like it.”

You handed it back.

But you were both thinking about that line for the rest of the day.

We interrupt your regularly scheduled political tragedy to bring you SPACE PIGEONS.

I don't understand how people just Do things without daydreaming. like how are you not off in a silly little fantasy world rn

Commander Fox x Singer/PA Reader pt. 2

There was an unspoken tradition at the Coruscant Guard offices: the moment you showed up, coffee cups paused mid-air, datapads lowered, and someone inevitably muttered, "Oh look, she's still alive."

You strolled in two weeks late, absolutely glowing.

"Didn't know we were giving out extended vacations now," Trina said, her words clipped like a blaster bolt. "Maybe I should fake a spiritual awakening and disappear too."

You peeled off your sunglasses and smiled sweetly. "You should. Maybe they'll find your personality out there."

Snickers echoed through the hall.

Trina's eyes narrowed into twin black holes of corporate rage. "Commander Fox has been asking where you were."

That gave you the slightest pause. "Oh? Worried I was dead?"

She shrugged. "Or hoping."

You shot her a wink and breezed past, fully aware your hair looked too perfect for someone who just "found herself in nature."

---

Fox found you twenty minutes later, posted up at your desk with your boots on said desk, sipping caf and flipping through a holo-mag like someone who was not, in fact, two weeks behind on reports.

He stood silently at your side until you acknowledged him.

"Commander," you said brightly. "Miss me?"

"You disappeared. Again."

You looked up at him with the most innocent expression in the galaxy. "Went on a spiritual retreat."

He raised an eyebrow. "To where?"

"Kashyyyk. Hung out with some Wookiees. Meditated. Learned how to nap in trees."

Fox stared. You kept sipping your caf.

"They're big on inner peace," you added, deadpan. "Also, apparently I snore."

He didn't smile. But he also didn't press. Just that slow blink of his, the way his gaze lingered a little too long like he was cataloguing bruises or new scars.

"You weren't hurt?" he asked.

You softened. Just a little. "No, Commander. I wasn't hurt."

He nodded once and walked away.

*He cared.*

He'd never say it. But it was there.

---

Later that week, you returned from your mandatory ethics seminar—snoozefest—only to find your desk had been mysteriously moved... into the hallway.

Trina passed by with a smug little strut. "You missed a lot of meetings. We needed the space."

You leaned back in your new spot. "You know, if this is your way of flirting, I'm flattered."

"I'd rather kiss a Hutt."

You gasped. "Don't tempt me with a good time."

---

That night, you sang again at 79's. A slower set this time. Sadder. You weren't sure why—maybe something about Fox's voice that day still stuck with you.

And just like always... he was there.

Helmet off. Silent in the corner.

You sang to him without saying it. And when you left the club through the back again, this time you didn't get far before his voice stopped you.

"Wait."

You turned. "Following me again?"

He stepped closer. Not quite in your space. But close enough that you could see the faint tension in his jaw.

"I thought something happened," he said quietly.

You swallowed. "Fox—"

"Next time, just tell someone."

You blinked. "Why?"

A long pause.

"Because if something *did* happen," he said, "I'd want to know."

And then, like he couldn't bear to say more, he turned and walked into the night.

You watched him go, heart tight, a laugh threatening to rise in your throat just to cover the way your chest ached.

Aurra Sing had said you were valuable.

Fox... made you feel seen.

And somewhere in the distance, under the glow of Coruscant's neon skyline, a shadow watched.

Waiting.

---

The next morning, your desk was still in the hallway.

Trina had redecorated the spot where it used to be with a potted plant and a framed motivational poster that read "Discipline Defines You." You were considering setting it on fire.

"Morning, Sunshine," you chirped as you walked past her with your caf. "How's the tyrannical dictatorship going?"

Trina didn't even flinch. "At least I show up for work."

"Oh, please. If you were a droid, you'd overheat from micromanaging."

And there it was—that smirk from the other assistant.

Kess.

She leaned over her desk like she was watching a drama unfold in real time. "Okay, okay, play nice, girls. It's not even second caf yet."

Trina rolled her eyes. "Pick a side, Kess."

Kess grinned. "I like the view from the middle."

You narrowed your eyes. "You said Trina once threatened to replace your shampoo with grease trap water."

"She was joking," Kess said quickly.

"I was not," Trina snapped.

"I mean... still better than your perfume," you added under your breath.

Kess audibly choked on her tea.

---

Later that day, Commander Fox called you into his office.

The tension in the room dropped the moment you stepped inside, replaced by something electric and quiet. He didn't say anything at first, just stared at you like he was trying to decide if you were a puzzle or a headache.

"You vanished for two weeks," he finally said. "Now your overdue reports are two months overdue."

"I'll get to them," you said lightly, flopping into the chair opposite him. "Eventually."

Fox pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Also," you added, "Trina moved my desk into the hallway. Which I'm 80% sure is illegal."

"I'll talk to her."

You blinked. "You will?"

"She's not your superior."

A strange warmth bloomed in your chest. You masked it with sarcasm. "So chivalrous, Commander."

He gave you a look, one corner of his mouth twitching. "Just don't give me a reason to regret it."

---

That night at 79's the lights were low and your voice was velvet as you sang something slow and sultry. The bar was busy, but you spotted him—Fox, helmet off again, watching like he always did. Quiet. Unmoving. Yours, just for the length of a song.

You left through the back after your set, wrapping your coat tighter around yourself as the cool Coruscant air bit at your skin.

You didn't hear the footsteps until it was too late.

A hand slammed against the wall near your head, and a sharp voice coiled around you like a whip.

"Well, well. Songbirds off duty again."

Aurra Sing.

Her chalk-white skin shimmered in the streetlight, that deadly antenna gleaming above her forehead. She smiled without warmth.

"I've been watching you," she said. "You've got... potential."

You stepped back, heart hammering. "I'm not interested."

"No?" She clicked her tongue. "You work with the Guard. You're close with the Marshal Commander. You wander the galaxy without ever leaving a trace. I could use someone like that."

"I'm not a bounty hunter."

She leaned in closer, voice dropping. "Yet."

Your fingers twitched near your concealed weapon. Aurra's eyes flicked down and back, amused.

"Relax. I'm not here to kill you," she said. "Just... reminding you that people are watching. And not just me."

She melted back into the shadows before you could respond.

You stood alone in the alley, breath shaky, heart pounding.

You weren't scared.

But you were very, very awake.

---

The next morning, Trina took one look at you dragging yourself into work late with dark circles under your eyes and said, "Did the retreat monks kick you out for being annoying?"

Kess tried to stifle her laugh and failed.

You just smirked. "If you must know, I was nearly murdered by a galactic legend last night. What did *you* do, Trina? Color-code the caf pods again?"

Fox passed by just as you said it, pausing only to glance at you—an unreadable look in his eyes.

You gave him a half-smile.

He didn't return it.

But his hand twitched near his blaster.

He'd heard. And that meant he knew something was off.

You were starting to wonder if you were the one being watched… or the one being protected.

---

Hello! I had an idea for a Kix x Fem!Reader where she transfers into his medbay but she stands out because she remembers every clones name. Regardless if she hasn’t even met them she has read all the files and committed them to memory and he’s like astonished but also touched. Maybe his brothers are like “if you don’t make a move I will” Hope this is good! Have a good weekend! ♥️

“First‑Name Basis”

Kix x Reader

Hyperspace thrummed beyond the transparisteel ports while Kix tried to tame the Resolute’s perpetually crowded med‑bay. Bacta monitors chimed, troopers squabbled over whose scar looked “coolest,” and Kix’s gloves were still sticky with drying crimson when the hatch whispered open.

A quiet but confident voice announced, “New med‑tech reporting, sir—[Y/N].”

Kix flicked off his gloves, surprised. “You picked a kriffing busy shift to arrive—welcome.”

From the nearest cot, Hardcase crowed, “What d’you bet she faints when she sees my arm?”

You crossed to him without blinking. “CT‑0217 Hardcase—through‑and‑through blaster hit, distal humerus, yesterday. Dermabind’s due for a swap.”

Hardcase shut up so fast Fives snorted.

You pointed down the line:

“CT‑5597 Jesse—rib bruise, de‑pressurised plating on R‑3. Three‑hour ice intervals.

“CT‑5555 Fives—fragment nick, upper thigh; you’ll pretend it doesn’t hurt until it infects.”

“CT‑0000 Dogma—scalp laceration, eight stitches. Stop picking at them.”

Each trooper stared like you’d grown a second head.

Kix folded his arms. “You read our charts?”

“Memorised the battalion manifest on the shuttle. Names separate patients from barcodes.”

A low whistle: Jesse grinned around a pain‑killer stick. “Kix, vod—if you don’t lock that down, I’m escorting her to 79’s myself.”

Fives elbowed him. “Brother, that’s my line.”

Dogma muttered, “Show some discipline.”

“Show some charm,” Fives shot back.

Kix cleared his throat, ears reddening. “Settle, vod. Let the medic work—unless you want a protocol droid doing your stitches.”

⸻

Kix found you re‑stocking kolto packs. “Most rookies need a week to learn nicknames; you quoted service numbers.”

“You’re not rookies—you’re veterans. Acting like it matters.”

His voice softened. “We spend our lives as copies. Remembering us by name… that’s a rare kind of medicine.”

Across the bay, Hardcase bellowed, “Kix! She fixin’ your ego yet?”

Jesse added, “Timer’s ticking, sir!”

You hid a smile. “I still need orientation, Kix. Maybe… a tour of the ‘cultural hub’ I’ve heard about?”

Kix’s grin was pure relief—and a little wonder. “Med‑officer‑ordered R&R, 79’s cantina, 2000. Mandatory.”

Hardcase whooped. “Ha! Called it!”

⸻

Blue and gold holo‑lights flashed off clone armor stacked by the door. Fives tried teaching you a rigged sabacc hand; Jesse heckled from behind; Dogma nursed one drink like it was contraband; Hardcase danced on a tabletop until Rex appeared, helmet tucked under his arm.

Rex eyed the scene, then you. “Heard the new medic can ID every trooper in the Legion.”

“Only the ones who’ve been shot today, sir,” you said, straight‑faced.

Hardcase cheered. Jesse rapped knuckles on the table. Even Rex let a ghost of a smile slip before nodding to Kix: Good find.

Jesse leaned close while Kix ordered drinks. “Take care of him, cyar’ika. Our medic patches everyone but himself.”

You watched Kix laugh, shoulders finally loose for the first time all day. “Count on it,” you said, lifting a glass.

Across the cantina, Hardcase elbowed Fives. “Told you names matter.”

Fives clinked his mug to Jesse’s. “Here’s to finally being more than numbers.”

And—for a few riotous hours beneath 79’s flickering lights—every soldier of the 501st felt like the only trooper in the Grand Army, thanks to one medic who never forgot a name.

Hi! I love your works! I was wondering if you could write a fic about the 501st who is in love with their female Jedi general?

“Hearts of the 501st”

501st x Reader

Felucia was vibrant and lethal in equal measure—towering mushrooms filtering alien sunlight, thick air buzzing with unfamiliar insects, and a dense undergrowth that clung to your boots like molasses. You pushed aside a broad-leafed plant and stepped into a small clearing where the 501st had already begun establishing a temporary perimeter.

“General on deck,” Jesse called, half out of breath, tossing a lazy salute.

You waved him off with a faint grin. “At ease. Just scouting ahead.”

“Thought we told you we’d handle that,” Rex said as he approached, already brushing bits of foliage off your shoulder with practiced familiarity.

You smiled faintly at the gesture. “You did, and I ignored you. As usual.”

“Yeah, we’re used to that,” Fives muttered to Tup under his breath. “Still doesn’t stop us from trying to keep her alive.”

“She thinks it’s loyalty,” Jesse murmured with a chuckle. “Adorable, isn’t it?”

Hardcase, lugging a heavy case of thermal charges, barked a laugh. “More like tragic. This whole squad’s gone soft.”

“Speak for yourself,” Dogma grunted. “I’m focused.”

“Focused on what? Her ass?” Kix quipped without looking up from his medical kit.

You, of course, had no idea what they were whispering about. The clones had always been close with you—professional, dedicated, respectful. If you noticed the way conversations halted whenever you walked into the room, or how they always seemed to compete for your attention in subtle, strangely personal ways, you chalked it up to a particularly tight-knit unit. One bonded through battle. Through trust.

After all, you shared the front lines. You slept in the dirt beside them. Bled with them. Saved them—and been saved by them more times than you could count.

“General,” Tup said quietly, stepping up beside you, his cheeks dusted pink despite the heat. “Hydration. You haven’t taken a break in hours.”

You took the canteen with a grateful nod. “Thanks, Tup. You’re always looking out for me.”

He looked like he’d been knighted.

⸻

That evening, near the field base You sat cross-legged in the command tent, analyzing the terrain projections while the familiar hum of clone chatter drifted in from the campfire outside. Anakin and Ahsoka lingered near the entrance, arms crossed, watching you work.

“She really doesn’t know,” Ahsoka said quietly, shaking her head.

Anakin followed your movements with an amused glance. “Nope. Not a clue. I don’t think she even realizes she could have the entire 501st building her a temple if she asked.”

“She did ask Fives to carry her backpack last week and he nearly cried.”

“I remember. Jesse said it was ‘the most spiritual moment of his life.’”

They both stifled their laughs as you looked up. “Something funny?”

“Nope,” they said in unison.

“Just, uh…” Anakin motioned vaguely toward your datapad. “Hope that’s got better answers than the last one.”

You raised a brow, but let it go. “We’ll hit the eastern ridge at dawn. I’ll lead the recon.”

“Of course you will,” Ahsoka said, grinning.

The fire crackled low in the center of the camp. Most of the men had finished maintenance checks and settled into their usual banter.

“I swear she said my name differently today,” Jesse said, eyes half-lidded like he was remembering a song. “Like, softer.”

“She says everyone’s name soft,” Kix argued. “It’s called being kind.”

“No, she looked at me,” Jesse insisted.

“She handed me her lightsaber to inspect,” Fives cut in. “Do you hand your saber to someone you don’t trust with your life?”

“She asked me if I was sleeping enough,” Dogma added with a hint of reverence.

“Pretty sure she just worries about your death wish, brother,” Hardcase quipped.

“You lot are pathetic,” Rex muttered, but there was no bite to it. He was staring into the fire, silent for a moment. “She trusts us. That’s enough.”

But even Rex didn’t believe that—not really. Not when you laughed that easy laugh after a mission went right. Not when your shoulder brushed his during strategy briefings and his thoughts short-circuited for a full five seconds. Not when you called him by name, soft and sure, like it meant something more.

⸻

You lay awake in your tent, the soft drone of Felucia’s wild night barely louder than the murmured clone banter outside. You smiled faintly, listening to the comfort of their voices, and whispered to yourself:

“Best unit in the galaxy.”

You really had no idea.

⸻

The jungle had closed in tighter the deeper you went. Trees loomed like ancient sentinels, their bioluminescent vines casting blue and green hues across the mist. Your boots squelched through thick moss as you signaled the squad to halt, raising two fingers to point toward a cluster of Separatist patrol droids sweeping the ridge ahead.

“Fives, Jesse, flank left. I want eyes from that outcrop,” you whispered. “Dogma, with me. Kix, hang back with the heavy—just in case this gets loud.”

They all moved in sync. Always so responsive. Always so ready.

What you didn’t notice was the flicker in Jesse’s eyes when you called Fives’ name first. Or the way Dogma’s jaw tensed when you brushed close to him as you moved up the ridge. Or how Kix lingered a beat too long, watching your retreating form before shaking his head and muttering something under his breath.

The skirmish was over in minutes—clean, quiet, surgical. A dozen droids scattered in pieces across the clearing.

You turned to Fives, heart still beating fast. “That was textbook work. Great movement on the flank.”

He beamed. “Just following your lead, General.”

But something about the way he said it made your stomach flutter. That grin was too… warm. Too personal.

You blinked, trying to shake it off. He’s just proud. That’s normal. Right?

⸻

You sat by a small portable lamp in the command tent, jotting down notes from the recon while the jungle buzzed around you. The flap rustled and Jesse ducked inside, holding a steaming cup.

“Thought you might want some caf,” he said, offering it with a smile—less playful than usual. Quieter.

“Thanks.” You took it, letting your fingers brush his without meaning to. “You didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to,” he said simply.

You paused. The heat from the mug had nothing on the warmth spreading up your neck.

He stayed, quiet, hands tucked behind his back like a soldier at parade rest. But he didn’t leave, and you didn’t tell him to.

Not until Fives walked in.

“General,” Fives said, a little too loudly. “Just checking if you’ve eaten. You’ve got a nasty habit of forgetting.”

Jesse straightened slightly. “She’s fine. I brought her caf.”

Fives’ smile faltered. “Right. Well… I made stew. Her favorite.”

You glanced between them. “You two okay?”

“Peachy,” Jesse muttered, stepping out of the tent without another word.

Fives watched him go, lips thinning. Then he turned to you and said, “Don’t let him guilt-trip you. He gets weird about stuff.”

You looked at him sideways. “Stuff like me?”

Fives blinked, like he hadn’t expected the question to come so directly.

“I didn’t mean—nevermind. I’ll just eat later. Thanks for the stew.” You stood, grabbing your datapad and pushing past him, mind whirling.

Something was shifting. You weren’t sure what, but you weren’t imagining it anymore.

The fire was lower now, casting shadows over their faces as the clones gathered close. You sat among them, quiet, watching the way they moved. Noticing things you hadn’t before.

Jesse sat closer than usual, shoulders brushing yours. Fives kept shooting glances your way whenever you laughed at one of Kix’s jokes. Dogma didn’t say much—but his eyes barely left you the entire night. And when you stood up to grab your bedroll, Rex was already there, unfolding it with a softness that caught in your throat.

“Thanks, Rex,” you said.

He hesitated, eyes searching yours. “Of course, General.”

And that—that was what did it.

Something in his voice. The way he said your title like it hurt. Not because it was formal, but because it wasn’t enough.

You barely slept that night.

⸻

The next morning you stood at the front of the squad, explaining the route to a newly discovered Separatist supply outpost when you noticed them: Jesse, Fives, and Dogma—all standing just slightly apart. Not fighting. Not even speaking to each other. But the air between them was tense.

Kix noticed too. He leaned in as the others filed out. “You might want to watch that triangle you’ve unknowingly wandered into, Commander.”

You blinked. “Triangle?”

He gave you a long, knowing look. “More like a pentagon, if we’re being honest.”

You stared after him as he left, that fluttering in your chest blooming into something a little heavier. A little realer.

You thought you understood them. Thought they were just loyal. Just dedicated.

But maybe…

Maybe there was more to this than you let yourself see.

And now, you weren’t sure what to do about it.

⸻

Felucia hadn’t gotten any cooler overnight. The muggy heat clung to your skin like armor, but it wasn’t just the weather that had you feeling unsteady lately.

The clones had always been devoted—but now, their focus on you felt sharper. Their glances lingered longer. Their voices dropped when they spoke your name.

You weren’t imagining it anymore.

And that… scared you more than it should have.

⸻

You crouched over a portable console with Rex, fingers brushing as you both reached for the same wire.

He paused. Just a second too long.

You looked up. “You okay, Captain?”

“Fine,” Rex said. But he didn’t move. Not right away.

“I’m not fragile, you know,” you said gently, trying to smile.

“I know,” he said, voice low. “That’s… kind of the problem.”

Before you could ask what he meant, Hardcase stomped up, practically glowing with pride and holding two ration bars.

“Brought the last of the chocolate ones! And look who I’m giving it to,” he said with a wink, tossing you one.

“You’re too good to me, Hardcase,” you laughed, catching it.

“I try,” he said, puffing out his chest before flicking his gaze toward Rex. “Captain looked like he needed one too, but I figured you deserved it more.”

“Subtle,” Rex muttered.

Hardcase just grinned wider.

⸻

Later that night you paid a visit to the medical tent. Your wrist was bruised. Not bad—just a scuffle with a tangle of thornvine—but the medics insisted on a check-up.

“I told you not to block a shot with your arm,” Kix muttered, gently applying salve as you sat on the edge of a cot.

“I didn’t block it. I intercepted it creatively.”

He snorted, soft. “You know you scare the hell out of us sometimes?”

You looked up. “Us?”

“All of us,” he admitted, quieter now. “Rex won’t say it, but he barely sleeps when you’re on mission. Fives gets twitchy if he can’t see you in his line of sight. Jesse doesn’t even pretend to hide it anymore.”

You blinked at him.

“You too?” you asked before you could stop yourself.

Kix held your gaze. “Would it really surprise you?”

You didn’t answer. Because it did. And it didn’t. And that was… confusing.

Before he could say more, Coric stepped into the tent.

“Everything good?” he asked, glancing between the two of you.

“Fine,” Kix said shortly. “She’s taken care of.”

Coric raised a brow but said nothing, just gave you a faint smile and left.

The silence afterward buzzed like static.

⸻

The morning started off normally enough.

Warm-up sparring. Partner rotations. But when you paired off with Rex, things shifted.

He was precise, careful, calculated. He always had been. But when your saber skimmed a little too close, and he reached out to stop your momentum—

His hand settled at your waist. Not for balance. Not for combat.

You froze.

So did he.

“…Sorry,” he said, voice hoarse, withdrawing quickly.

You didn’t speak. You couldn’t. Because your heart was pounding.

And then came Hardcase, throwing himself between you two, laughing as he tossed you a training staff. “Mind if I cut in?”

Rex stepped back without a word.

You sparred with Hardcase next, but the smile you gave him didn’t quite reach your eyes. Not anymore.

Next chapter